Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash
writing

The still of the night

It’s the still of the night, so silent you can hear the burning end of the cigarette between your fingers. Everyone is asleep. Someone moans softly, breaths deeply and is quiet. You can still taste the burn of tequila on your lips, that last shot had been hours ago. It had gone down smooth, you had laughed when he needed a chaser.

The beer can is cold in your hand; small drops of condensation run down and fall to your shin. It sends a slow shiver through your body but fades quickly. The night is warm, the room alive if not awake. You wrap your lips around the hand rolled cig and take in a deep breath. The smoke rushed to your lungs, filling them with that familiar intoxicating rush. What would your parents think?

You laugh at the thought. They’d be mortified, disappointed, worried. You had long ago shed the image of the perfect little girl they once had. They still hung on to the hope that you would come around, that you’d mold to society and fit in. Finally, put that college degree to use, you said that life is more than just getting that stupid piece of paper. They said that you can achieve a lot with that piece of paper, so you went and got it. Now it sits framed in a dusty corned under your bed along with some dust bunnies and a few spider webs.

You set out to see what life was really about and still had yet to figure that one out.

You nestled further into the soft, worn couch, beer in left hand, cig in right, vaguely aware of the person gently snoring beside you. Empty cans littered the coffee table; the ashtray was full of burnt ends. A welcome haze hung over the sleeping party, the warm smell of tobacco and weed nudged gently along all surfaces.

Someone’s phone buzzed, killing the silence. The screen lit up the dark room. You put the beer to your lips and took a sip. It mixed well with the smoke.

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